


Off the Rue Saint-Honoré

by myrmidryad



Series: Underground Dreaming [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 07:32:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14848430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: “He should be around here somewhere,” Gavroche was saying, leading the way into the Square Léon. “I told him it’s a good place to sleep.”Éponine meets Grantaire, and Grantaire meets the Patron-Minette.





	Off the Rue Saint-Honoré

Paris in August was disgustingly hot. Éponine could feel the sweat on her skin like grease, shining on her forehead and lower back, and it was pissing her off that Gavroche looked as fresh as if he’d stepped out of a shower. The advantage of youth, she supposed.

“He should be around here somewhere,” Gavroche was saying, leading the way into the Square Léon. “I told him it’s a good place to sleep.”

“If he can’t figure out that he can sleep in a public park then he’s an idiot,” Éponine said flatly. “Are you serious about him?”

“Eh, he’s fine. He’s just new, that’s all.”

“Why’d he run away?”

Gavroche snorted. “He fucked up his Bac.”

“Jesus, seriously?”

“Yeah. Says his dad would’ve kicked him out when he found out anyway, so he was just getting ahead of the game. He’s not stupid though. His illusions are great!”

“I just need eyes, nothing fancy.” As if illusions would be useful in any situation anyway. She needed an extra lookout for a robbery her father was pulling tonight, but Azelma was going to a party and even though Gavroche had seen plenty of shit, there was something wrong about involving someone who’d only just hit double digits in a major crime.

Also, Gavroche’s attention span lasted about a minute on a good day, and Éponine wasn’t risking shit on his ability to stay still and quiet.

They paused at the edge of a stretch of grass while Gavroche scanned the various groups and loners sprawled in the shade, hiding from the fierce heat. “Ha – there he is.”

Éponine followed the angle of Gavroche’s finger to a young white man asleep on his back, a sports cap pulled over his face and a large backpack at his side. His arm was through one of the straps, so he would wake if someone tried to take it. “Backpack guy?” Éponine checked, and Gavroche nodded, starting to pick a path through the dozing bodies to get to him.

“Hey Grantaire!” he called when they were a few feet away. The man jerked awake, his cap falling into his lap as he sat up.

“Mm? Gavroche? I came here to sleep, you know.”

“Yeah.” Unconcerned, Gavroche nodded his head at Éponine. “This is my sister. She’s got a job for you.”

That got his attention. Éponine gave him a closer look as she and Gavroche got to him. Grantaire looked tired, patchy teenaged stubble on his face and an edge to his expression Éponine had seen a hundred times before. Cornered animal, ready to lash out if attacked but without any actual skill. Still hopeful, against better judgement. Hungry, no doubt. Young too, though Éponine knew she wasn’t exactly in a position to judge, since she was only seventeen. Gavroche said he’d found him about two weeks ago, but he’d been sleeping rough in Paris since July. His backpack – Éponine gave it a longer look – looked stuffed and soft, probably full of clothes or a sleeping bag, and that Grantaire still had it after a month on the streets meant he could at least avoid being robbed. That, or he’d stolen the contents himself. Either way, it was as good a recommendation as Gavroche’s word.

“What sort of job?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you on the way.” She jerked her chin back towards the path. “Coming?”

“Well…” Grantaire looked around, clearly reluctant to give up his sleeping spot.

“We’ll buy you dinner,” Gavroche said, and Grantaire was on his feet in a flash.

“Sold, to the kid in green. Let’s get this party started. Green’s working for you, by the way, much better than that purple thing I saw you in last time.”

“Who the fuck remembers shit like that?” Gavroche laughed, shoving Grantaire so he almost trod on someone.

“Me, apparently, but that’s not exactly surprising, given my fantastic memory for banal nonsense that’ll never be useful. What’s the square root of forty-two? I couldn’t tell you, but I can tell you that the last time I saw you we got those baked aubergines you didn’t like from that Greek place by the Lidl on Championnet – and that I won’t forget in a hurry, because they were fucking good and you don’t know what you’re missing – and you were wearing that purple shirt that was about five sizes too big for you.”

“Yeah, we’re all really impressed,” Gavroche said, the height of sarcasm. “That’s not weird at all.”

“Hey, backchat me when you’re big enough to fit into your clothes,” Grantaire shot back, and to Éponine’s surprise, Gavroche laughed instead of biting his head off. Grantaire really was a friend, it seemed. Not many people could poke at Gavroche’s fashion choices without his pride flaming up in all its ten year-old fury. “So, um.” Grantaire looked at her, frowning. “What’s this job? And what’s your name?”

“Éponine.” Éponine lowered her voice slightly. “Me and a few friends are hitting an apartment tonight, and we need another lookout.”

“She means they’re robbing the place,” Gavroche said. “That apartment on Saint-Honoré?”

“Yeah. Can you do it?”

Grantaire didn’t stop frowning. “What’s the pay?”

“Fifty euro.”

That brightened him up. “Done!”

“You’re way too easy,” Gavroche complained, shoving at him again. “Negotiate a bit, you idiot!”

“Yeah, like you haven’t already told her I’m homeless and hopeless and really fucking hungry,” Grantaire snorted. “Like _I_ haven’t given as much away already, come to that. Did you see how fast I got up when you said you’d feed me? I’d probably do tricks for scraps at this point. I’d probably blow someone for a shower.”

Éponine raised her eyebrows. “When was the last time you washed?”

“Mmm…maybe a month ago?”

“Oh my god.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, grabbing Gavroche to put him between them. “Didn’t anyone tell you to get a gym membership?”

“Um…”

“Use the fifty to get a gym membership,” Éponine told him. “Then you can have showers.”

“Where the hell am I getting a gym membership for under fifty euros in this hellscape of a city?” Grantaire asked, stepping out of the way of a group of girls Gavroche’s age, crowded around an ice-cream vendor. “Aren’t they all more expensive than that?”

“Depends on the gym. Gav can find you somewhere.”

“And I’ll spot you the extra money if you need it,” Gavroche added, taking a wallet that definitely didn’t belong to him out of his pocket and starting to rifle through it as they walked out of the square’s gates.

Éponine’s eyes flicked to Grantaire, who just looked resigned at Gavroche’s showing off. “Do you care that we’re thieves?” Éponine asked him in a low voice.

Grantaire met her eyes and snorted. “Morals are for people who can afford them, I think. Besides, if I’d sat out in that park with my hat in front of me, out of all those people there I might’ve gotten maybe two euros before getting kicked out for begging on such a lovely day with so many innocent children about.” He grinned and flicked Gavroche’s ear, feigning a groan of defeat when Gavroche jabbed him in the side in retaliation.

There was a coffee shop on the road next to the square, and Éponine led them in there. “Pick something,” she told Grantaire.

“Anything?” he challenged.

“Sure, go for it.” She wanted to see whether he’d push his luck or not, and she was satisfied when he picked up four packaged sandwiches, three bottles of water, a panini to be toasted then and there, and a bottle of coke. She paid for it all, plus a sandwich for herself, and she and Grantaire sat down while Gavroche got a cake and a coffee for himself with his newly stolen money.

Grantaire moaned when he bit into his panini, and Éponine watched in disgusted fascination as he wolfed the whole thing down in under two minutes. “Did you even stop to chew any of that?” she asked.

“Maybe every bite and a half,” he grinned, opening the coke and gulping down a third. Gavroche sat down with them as Grantaire took a flask out of his pocket and poured a generous amount into the coke bottle, capping it and shaking it up to mix it in. “When’s this happening then?” he asked Éponine, the bottle hissing as he unscrewed it. “And where?”

“Rue Saint-Honoré.”

“By the Tuileries Gardens,” Gavroche provided. “You know that, right?”

“By the river, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not till tomorrow morning,” Éponine told him. “Early. You can meet us there or stick with me, whatever you like, as long as you turn up.”

“I reckon I’ll stick with you.” Grantaire took a gulp of whatever the mixture in the coke bottle was. “I might get more food out of it.”

“Don’t count on it. Do you have a phone?”

“Yeah. It’s dead though.”

She tsked. “We can go to a Starbucks or something.”

Gavroche kicked her chair. “Not before giving me my commission.”

Éponine swatted his head. “Your commission is not having to hang around at three in the morning on a street corner looking like a lost kid, or some creep’s wet dream.”

Gavroche’s disgusted sound was loud enough to attract the attention of everyone else in the shop and set Grantaire off laughing. It was a good laugh, enough to have Éponine’s lips twitching against her will. “I’m just saying,” she said, pulling her expression back under control and checking her phone. “Ugh. Come on, we need to go.”

“We do?” Grantaire got up when she did, screwing the cap back on his coke.

“Yeah. Marie owes me, but if I don’t catch her after work I won’t get her till the weekend.”

“See ya round then.” Gavroche gave her a mocking salute, and she saw him exchange a grin with Grantaire before she turned away, trusting Grantaire would follow her out.

They walked in silence, at first. Éponine could be silent for hours or days at a time, but Grantaire was clearly less restrained. When he started talking about where he’d been since getting to Paris (by train, in fits and starts), she resigned herself to him being a chatterer, but it turned out that all Grantaire really needed was an audience, so she relaxed and let him talk.

“ – wasn’t exactly expected, y’know, but I guess I hoped for at least some solidarity. But hey, beggars literally can’t be choosers, right? I’d beg for the smell to begone, if I begged for anything, but proper begging seems to be a bygone trade. I’d be pretty good at that sort of thing, I think, doing myself up to look horribly disfigured to inspire pity from the masses, sing a song of woe and tragedy, and miraculously recover my sight and the use of my limbs as soon as they’d turned the corner. You know people actually used to do that? It was a proper trade, begging, like an art. And that’s why it was called the Court of Miracles, because all these apparently disabled, diseased people would become whole and hearty again when they went home for the night. I could make people believe that sort of thing if I could just get them to touch me, then I’d be able to –”

“Touch you?” Éponine interrupted the flow of nonsense. “What d’you mean?”

“I’m an illusionist.” Grantaire bowed, almost knocking into someone and then almost overbalancing under the weight of his backpack. Éponine grabbed it and hauled him upright again. “Whoops, sorry. Touch my skin somewhere, I’ll show you. Nothing creepy,” he added, eyes wide. “Not like _touch me_ touch me, just like, my shoulder or my arm or something.”

“Calm down, hot stuff.” Éponine rolled her eyes and looped her arm through his. “I’m not going to scream _pervert_ just because you want to cast a spell.”

“Ha, right.” He cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles, giving her a nervous sort of smile. “Alright, cross your fingers and pray I can make it work this time.” He looked forward and gestured with his right hand, drawing it through the air, fingers pointing out, then clenched into a fist and flung out at the same time as the hand closest to Éponine twitched, his fingers moving like they were attached to puppet strings.

A dog walked up beside them. It didn’t look real, an almost cartoonish edge to its shape and fur. It was white and red, shaggy and friendly-looking, medium sized. It bounced on its feet like a real dog, but the fur was too flat. Completely silent, of course, but still impressive. Éponine found herself smiling down at the dog, who looked up at her with a panting smile of its own. It was improving as she looked at it, and she could see Grantaire’s fingers and hands moving in her peripheral vision, adjusting details with little sounds of concentration. A man overtook them and walked straight through it, and Grantaire huffed as it turned jerky and colourless.

“It’s hard to do it on the move,” he said, sounding a little strained. “But there.” The dog vanished. “You see?”

“You’re pretty good,” Éponine said, drawing her arm out of his.

“Pretty good at something useless is still useless,” Grantaire shrugged. “There’s a handful of people in the world who can actually make a living off illusions, and I’m sure as hell not one of them.”

“How come the skin contact?” Éponine asked, curious now. “Does anyone else see anything if they’re not touching you?”

“Sometimes.” Grantaire frowned and flicked his hand again. “It’s a bird,” he told her. “In front of you. Can you see it?”

“No.”

“Well.” Grantaire dropped his hands and hefted his backpack higher. “There you go. And it’s not like I can hire anywhere to enchant for it, or like anyone would bother coming to see it if I did.”

For illusions to be worth paying for, the illusionist needed a properly enchanted space to create them in so that other people could see them. Powerful illusionists needed less of a base, Éponine had heard, but they all needed something to enchant their surroundings a little. One they had that though, the shows were meant to be amazing. The best illusionists could put their audiences in other worlds, and they could trick the ears as well as the eyes, making the experience more realistic. Shows like that were for the elite who could afford €800 tickets.

Grantaire trailed her as she went to the hotel where Marie worked as a maid. They hung around by the delivery entrance, Grantaire telling her something stupid about chefs in hotels and restaurants, until the maids coming off the afternoon shift started trickling out.

“Which one’s your friend?” Grantaire asked.

“You’ll know her when she comes over.” Marie wasn’t a friend. They’d only met a few times, and on those occasions it was to exchange spell items or money, not to socialise. Éponine didn’t actually recognise her until she approached them. Out of work, Marie wore bright scarves over her hair and her lips were always bright red or pink. Now, her face was bare and her scarf was a plain dark blue that matched her unflattering uniform.

“Éponine!” she sang, kissing Éponine’s cheeks and nudging her conspiratorially. “And your friend, who’s this?”

“No one important,” Grantaire told her, smiling.

“A mystery!” Marie declared. “Éponine, nobody told me you liked scruffy white boys!”

Éponine snorted. “Oh yeah, I fall at their feet. Come off it, I only met him today. He’s one of my brother’s friends, I’m showing him the sights. You said you had…?”

“Oh yes, come on.” Marie started walking, pulling a lipstick out of her bag and applying it with precision clearly born of practice. “Sixty-five, yes?”

“Yep.”

“No problem, one second.” Marie dropped her lipstick back into her bag and brought out a thick wallet. When she opened it, Éponine could see the tarot cards and charms she’d wedged into every spare space. When she rifled through the notes, sorting out tens and twenties and fives, Éponine saw a battered bay leaf among them. “Voila!” Marie handed Éponine a wedge of notes.

A quick check determined that the money was all there, and Éponine slipped it into her pocket and smiled. “Thanks. Anything else you need, you know where to find me.”

“I do. See you around, Éponine.” Marie kissed her cheeks again and nodded at Grantaire before heading off in the direction of the métro.

“What was that for then?” Grantaire asked, watching her go.

“Services rendered.” One of her father’s favourite phrases. Éponine walked on, knowing that Grantaire would follow.

“What does that mean?”

“Means we gave her a spell, and she paid us for it.”

“Who’s us?”

Éponine looked at him, but he seemed genuinely clueless. “My family,” she told him. “My parents, they sell dud spells for money.”

“If they’re duds, why do people pay for them?”

“Sometimes they work.” Éponine shrugged. “Magic’s all dependent, isn’t it? If I tell her the poppet we made has bits from all sorts of far-flung places in it, she’ll think it’s legit, even if I made it with an old sock and some dirt from any old corner. But sometimes it works anyway because she makes it work herself. When they figure out what actually makes that shit work, someone’ll make millions.”

Grantaire snorted. “Someone not being you.”

“Yeah, I’ll have to find a different con to pull.” Éponine rolled her shoulders and looked up. “I need some shade. Come on.” Down a side street, a shortcut to a square where they could sit down. She had an ancient iPod nano and she gave Grantaire a headphone when he asked, the two of them lying next to each other on the grass and listening to her music until the sun sank below the rooftops.

It was weird, sharing headphones with anyone but Azelma. She’d done it with a few friends at school, she remembered. Karidja, Crystel, Aditi. Sharing headphones and music, singing along. When she shared with Azelma, they had equal control over the music. Grantaire made no move to touch her iPod. Good for him – she would have hit him if he’d tried. He seemed happy enough to listen to whatever she liked, which suited her fine.

Grantaire sighed as they left the square – “I never know what to do with myself at this time of day.”

“Shows what you know.” Éponine led him back to the métro. “You can just keep riding,” she told him as they got on a train. They’d missed the real press of rush hour, but it was still crowded, the two of them pressed close on the chairs to avoid touching anyone who was standing up.

“If you can afford a ticket,” he muttered.

“Hasn’t Gav taught you how to lift a wallet yet?” She kept her voice low, leaning close to his shoulder so no one would overhear.

“Should he have?”

“Comes in handy.”

“Could you teach me?”

“Not here. I’m not as good either. Gav’s had more practice.”

Grantaire grinned. “He’s got light fingers, that’s for sure. He kept nicking my stuff till I promised I’d make him an illusion.”

“What did he want?” Éponine frowned. An illusion didn’t have any use that she could see.

“A fox. And for me to turn the environment into an apocalyptic wasteland, which was way harder. Worth it though – no more putting my hand in my pocket and wondering where my phone is.” He laughed.

“How do you…” Éponine paused, but at Grantaire’s expectant look, continued. “How do you make the environment look like a wasteland, what does that even mean?”

“Like…I don’t think it’d work here, there’s way too many people and we’re on the move and stuff, but say we were outside, like the square before, I’d make everything look all old and overgrown, take the people away if I could – that’s hard though, they don’t stand still – try and suppress the sound, but that’s fucking hard too…all sorts.”

“That’s…” Really cool. “Pretty useless.”

Grantaire laughed, leaning into her as the carriage swayed. “Tell me about it. Like what the fuck am I going to do with that? I guess if I practiced I’d maybe be able to get other people to see it, but again, how do I make money from that?”

“No one wants to touch a stranger,” Éponine agreed.

“Exactly. I mean...yeah.” They fell into silence as the train stopped and disgorged most of its passengers, a few getting on to replace them. Without the press of bodies to cover their voices, Éponine got her iPod out and handed Grantaire a headphone.

They stayed on the train until Éponine’s battery died, and then switched to another line that was mostly empty by that point. As the demographic changed from people heading home from work to people going out with their friends, Grantaire started to chatter again. Utterly random shit, telling her about shows and movies she’d never watched, books she’d never heard of, even politics and world affairs. And then he’d make some bizarre connection from something like that to the price of meat in supermarkets or the quality of weed in Paris compared to his hometown. It was like he had no filter at all.

Midnight came and went, and they had to get off the métro when it stopped running. Grantaire’s phone still needed charging up, so Éponine took him to an all-night bistro. They got soup while the staff charged Grantaire’s phone up behind the bar, and Éponine kept half an eye on Grantaire as he started to show signs of tiredness. “Nap,” she told him eventually. “I’ll wake you up when we have to go.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire muttered, leaning against the wall of their booth and closing his eyes. “I’ll be more awake for the actual watching part, promise.”

“You’d better be,” she said. Sleeping, he looked even younger than before. His deep voice made him sound older than he was – if he’d left home because he’d failed his Bac, he couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Éponine was already thinking of him as more like fifteen or sixteen. But at least he’d proven himself worthy of Gavroche’s recommendation so far. No leering, no innuendos, and not even a suggestion of flirting. He might be gay, she supposed, but he hadn’t mentioned it so far if he was.

They left around two and walked to the Rue Saint-Honoré. Grantaire was so tired he didn’t even chatter. He flinched like he was about to be attacked when Montparnasse stepped out of the shadows to join them. Éponine had to bite back a smile, and Montparnasse didn’t bother. “Who’s this?” he asked, falling into step at her side.

“Our eyes.”

“Gavroche too busy, was he?”

“Gavroche is ten,” Éponine reminded him. “Looks more suspicious to have a kid out at this time of night than someone older.”

“How old?” Montparnasse asked, smirking at Grantaire over Éponine’s head. She wondered what Grantaire thought of this odd stranger turning up out of nowhere, clearly no older than they were but dressed in a clearly expensive leather jacket and patterned black trousers. Pale as the devil and sharper than an armoury of blades.

“Is it relevant?” Grantaire asked, scowling. “You want to see my ID or something?”

“Ignore him,” Éponine told Grantaire. “He’s just being an ass.”

“Rude.” Montparnasse slid an arm around her waist, squeezing before she could shove him away with a sound of irritation.

“Fuck off.”

“Come on, petal, don’t be like that.” Montparnasse just grinned and tugged on a strand of her hair, swerving away when she tried to hit him. She hated it when he touched her hair. “Your eyes will think we’re not friends.”

“We’re not friends,” Éponine snapped. “Where’s my father?”

“On the street.” And just like that, Montparnasse was back in business mode. “Claquesous is with him.”

“Gueulemer?”

“On his way, like us.”

“Are you all going inside?” Grantaire asked uncertainly, and Éponine glanced at him before shaking her head.

“You’ll be at one end of the street, Gueulemer at the other. You know how to spell yourself hidden, right?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire looked confident enough about that, but Éponine wished she’d thought to test him before now.

“Good. You’ve got my number – if you see anything or sense anything, you call me. We shouldn’t be in there for more than half an hour.”

“Your first time?” Montparnasse asked, silky. “How sweet. It’s like Éponine’s popping your cherry.”

“Well, there are worse people it could be popped by,” Grantaire said, apparently without thinking. Éponine wasn’t sure whether to scowl or laugh at the expressions that flashed across his face – shock, nerves, and then awkwardness, his jaw clenched. If it had been light, Éponine would have bet money she would have seen him blush.

Montparnasse, of course, just laughed. He didn’t even stop when Éponine hit him in the side, chuckling as he looked at Grantaire. “Very cute.”

“You’re such a creep,” Éponine muttered, and Montparnasse shrugged a shoulder.

“Better the devil you know.”

He was right about that. Montparnasse, as she knew from experience, would be overly touchy, but would never actually go further than she could handle. It was more than she could say for a lot of her father’s other friends.

The apartment they were robbing was actually just off the Rue Saint-Honoré, and Éponine left Grantaire on the corner, finding herself hoping he would be alright.

“Very cute,” Montparnasse whispered in her ear as they walked away. “I like him. Disgusting clothes, and he’s not that much of a looker, but maybe you don’t mind, hm?” He squeezed her butt, and she shoved him away as hard as she dared.

“You’re right,” he said, coming back as though she’d done nothing. “Not in front of dear papa.”

Her father was leaning against the wall inside the entrance to the apartment block’s parking area. The gate was across it, of course, but it was a good place for keeping out of sight. Éponine had to concentrate to find Claquesous. If Montparnasse hadn’t told her he was there, she might not have noticed at all. She’d never known anyone so good at vanishing as Claquesous. He was so good she would have had a hard time describing him to a stranger; trying to get a grip on his appearance was like trying to hold smoke in her hands.

All of them present, Claquesous led the way in. He was the best with locks, but past that point, Éponine went ahead. She’d always been sensitive to magic, especially curses. If anything was there, she would find it, and Claquesous or Montparnasse would dismantle it.

Once inside, her father had his time to shine. No one could sniff out valuables like Avel Thénardier. They went through the apartment methodically, one room at a time, careful not to leave a mess. Éponine kept her eyes on her companions as much as their surroundings, wanting to see what they were after.

The answer was in the bedroom. What looked like a walk-in closet was a fully kitted out ritual room, beautifully decorated, but with shoddy protection. Éponine picked out only two protection spells and a weak curse on a wooden box, and nothing more. She stood back as the men devoured the room’s contents. Herb bundles, boxes, crystals, books, ornaments, everything disappeared into pockets and bags. In just a few minutes, the place had been stripped bare. If her father could have pulled the paint from the walls, he would have.

They were out in twenty-six minutes, laden down with goods. Éponine had taken her share of the loot, and she followed the men up the road towards Gueulemer as they exited the building. Brujon would meet them with a car, and they would head to someone’s apartment.

_Job done_ , Éponine texted Grantaire as she walked, tilting her screen to show Montparnasse when he raised an eyebrow. _Check your bag front pocket for money._ She’d slipped in fifty euros while he’d been asleep at the bistro, and part of her wanted to smile, imagining his reaction.

_Thanks!_ Grantaire texted back a second later. _See you around, I guess. Stay safe._

It made Montparnasse laugh, but Éponine slid her phone back into her pocket and bit back a surprised smile. It faded naturally into a frown as she asked herself why she even cared if some guy she’d only met today told her to stay safe, and she forgot about it as Brujon pulled up and they all piled into the back of his car. She sat on Montparnasse’s lap, stiff and uncomfortable, making herself as unnoticeable as possible until they stopped.

The goods were pooled and assessed at Gueulemer’s apartment, and Éponine stayed only long enough to make sure she’d get her cut before slipping out. Her share would be smaller than everyone else’s, it always was, but it wasn’t like she had anything else to live on. They’d paid her back for what she’d paid Grantaire, but only because she’d taken it from what Marie had given her, and her father took that before it could even touch her hands. The important thing was that she’d made sure it wouldn’t come out of her own cut, small as it was. She had to live on something.

The light was blue-grey and pale as she stepped out onto the street, heading for the nearest métro station. She’d been awake for close to twenty-four hours now, and she could feel it in her mouth and eyes, both dry and gluey. Time to go home, back to her mother’s apartment, where Azelma might already be waiting in the bed they had to share.

**Author's Note:**

> Forging ahead! Guys, this universe is my baby.


End file.
